


Paper Lobster

by damozel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Chef Sherlock, First Meetings, Foot Jobs, M/M, Tumblr: exchangelock, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/pseuds/damozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Of all the places in all the world, The Happy Chicken Shop in King’s Cross was the very last in which he had expected to work out his days...</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Retired army officer Dr John H. Watson is down on his luck. That is until he is approached by a mysterious stranger, who offers him a lucrative trial at one of the West End's top restaurants. It all seems too good to be true. But is it a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Lobster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewaitwasworthitlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/gifts).



> Written to thewaitwasworthitlove's delicious culinary prompt for the Exchangelock "What If..." challenge. I hope this is something like what you wanted. Bon Appetit!

The shift felt as if it had gone on for weeks. It was gone midnight, and the customers continued to come through in their droves. The gobby cabbies demanding toxic quantities of tomato ketchup with their orders. The black-eyed working girls lingering over a small cup of warm coffee before heading out to brave the streets once more. The cocky dealers and pimps whose watches cost more than most men’s yearly wages. They used the place to conduct their business transactions when they needed to be away from prying eyes. The ghouls of modern London town.

John leaned wearily against the cheap, formica worktop, realising too late that he had rested his arm against a pungent pool of grease. Cursing he rolled his sleeve up and reached for a cloth. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t keep the counter clean. Grease seemed to pervade the place, working its way into every nook and crevice until he felt that the very lines on his face were caked with the grim, slimy substance. 

Of all the places in all the world, The Happy Chicken Shop in King’s Cross was the very last in which he had expected to work out his days. Not twelve months since he had been squatting in the dusty streets of Kandahar, squaring his shoulders against a rain of gunfire as he attempted to drag a fallen comrade to safety. Now he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything better than wiping up slops for a living. All that was left to remind him of that other life, that other self, was the wooden walking stick propped next to the sink.

Beside him Darl yawned and stretched as he slid another load of dishes over to John. ‘Call it a night shall we, bud?’

Of course it wasn’t really a question. Darl Johnson and his brothers owned the shop, and could do as they pleased. Then John had no real grounds for complaint. The brothers generally liked to manage things amongst themselves, but had advertised for help when their youngest sibling had quit following a family row, the details of which John had never been privy to. He had spotted the vacancy on the Job Centre notice board when he was at his lowest ebb, and was grateful to be offered work at all. The two older Johnson brothers tended to look down their noses at John, viewing him as a general dogsbody. But Darl, the regular manager, was a decent sort. If a little distant. The closest the two got to a deep and meaningful conversation was a bit of light banter over the footy, and that suited John just fine. 

The nightly clean-down – however futile – was heavy, tedious work. And the sense of relief was palpable as John stepped out into the cool night air. He stumbled as he attempted to fall into a regular rhythm with his stick, and realised too late that he was being lunged at from behind. A soldier to the last, he braced himself and managed to spin on the spot, holding his chin up confrontationally. But the show of defiance was in vain. With no little embarrassment, he realised that the man behind him had only been offering a helping hand to a struggling cripple.

‘I’m sorry. I frightened you,’ began the stranger in deep, cultured tones. He was stating the obvious, but he still looked unsure of himself. 

As John drank in the man’s milky complexion, high cheekbones, and deep, grey-blue eyes, it dawned on him that the face was familiar. He had seen him hunched over a corner table at The Happy Chicken Shop on several occasions, hammering away at his smart phone. The man had stood out then owing to his distinctive Belstaff coat, and his dark, unruly curls. John hadn’t much time to devote to speculation during busy evening shifts, and he must have counted him among the long line of dealers, pimps and chancers who floated in and out. Now, as he looked over the man’s unusual, inquiring face, he suspected that he had misjudged him entirely.

‘You just took me by surprise,’ mumbled John, looking at the ground and blushing. ‘I should be getting off.’ The stranger’s hand still rested lightly upon his shoulder, and he shrugged it off, shifting his body weight back onto the walking stick.

‘I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got an offer. A job offer.’

John’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach as he realised that his first impressions had been right after all. Another pimp, exploiting the vulnerable. Or simply a cruiser, looking for a rent boy to pick up and discard when he’d had his pleasure. 

‘Look, you’ve got the wrong sort of bloke.’ John picked up his pace as much as his leg allowed him, but the taller man easily matched his stride. A look of horror passed across his face as he processed John’s words. 

‘Not that sort of job,’ he replied gravely. ‘I run the kitchen at Paper Lobster, and I’m looking for another pair of hands.’

‘Paper Lobster? _The_ Paper Lobster,’ John spluttered. ‘I’m not that much of a mug, mate,’ he retorted, laughing but still trying to put some distant between them. ‘I suppose you want to fix me up at The Ivy as well,’ he added, scoffing. 

The other man stopped at last. 

‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes,’ he cried after John into the night, ‘look me up.’ He began to shout more loudly as John pulled further away. ‘You’ve got a trial at 2 o’Clock tomorrow, if you want it. And you’re not working here – I checked!’

***

John surveyed himself in the shiny, metal kitchen unit. The crisp whites that he had been provided with were miraculously a perfect fit. The jacket accommodated his deceptively muscular shoulders, without leaving room to spare, and the trousers tapered neatly at his ankles, allowing for his somewhat diminutive stature. With his hair slicked back beneath a tidy checked cap, he looked a different man to the worn out figure who had limped out of the The Happy Chicken Shop the previous evening.

The journey that had taken him to that moment was still something of a blur. Of course he had _intended_ to forget all about the strange episode on the street. Then when he arrived back at his poky bedsit, and pulled out his battered laptop, he had been unable to resist the temptation to search for his unusually named new acquaintance. He was unsure of the spelling, but Google soon threw up several pages of results. Sherlock Holmes, esteemed head chef at one of the West End’s best known restaurants. The face that looked out from the awkward, mannered professional portraits was undoubtedly that of the man who had approached him. Of course he should have ended it there. Chalked it up to once last remarkable experience before he accepted a hum drum life on Civvy Street once and for all. But the residual flame of the old John Watson was still present, buried somewhere deep inside. At 1 o’Clock the next afternoon he found himself on a Piccadilly Line train bound for Leicester Square. He assured himself that this was a simple matter of curiosity, and nothing to do with the mysterious stranger's slender figure and dark, handsome features.

The under-chef who greeted John at the kitchen door took his bafflement in his stride. ‘Yeah, the boss’s got his own way of doing things all right,’ he grinned, as John tried to explain what had happened. ‘The name’s Gabriel by the way, but everyone calls me Angelo. Subtle humour, aye? Welcome to the madhouse!’

John had expected to be immediately put on the dishes. Washing-up was one skill that he was certain of, at least. And if truth be told he had been no more than a glorified kitchen porter at The Happy Chicken Shop. Therefore he was more than a little surprised when he was asked to take part in the food prep along with the others. He muddled along as best he could using the skills that he had picked up from Darl, and his new colleagues were surprisingly kind and patient with him. They looked to be a dynamic, professional team, but he wondered if they had all entered the business by such unusual means as himself.

The afternoon passed by in a flurry of scraping, scrubbing, and chopping. The nerves only began to kick in when the countdown to the dinner service began. The kitchen was open plan, and John was stationed behind the front counter, in full view of the discerning public. His task was a relatively simple one: plating up the miniature vegetables. Nevertheless, as he watched the flustered waiting staff tweak the linen, cutlery and glassware – items that were already immaculately arranged – a wave of insecurity washed over him.

‘Feeling the pressure?’ came a voice from over his shoulder. Sherlock Holmes obviously had the habit of creeping up on people from behind. And it seemed that he also practised some kind of telepathy.

As John turned the air seemed to catch in his throat. It was only a set of kitchen whites. Yet on the body of the younger man the clothes were rendered positively obscene. The _oh-so tight_ trousers clung to Sherlock’s delicious looking crotch without mercy. It was enough to reawaken feelings that had long been forgotten, or suppressed, and John’s mind flicked back to the image of another tall, dark man. A man dressed in army khakis at first. Then no longer. This favourite scene from the past was crowded out as he began to imagine another scenario. This time involving the figure who stood before him and a pair of discarded chef’s uniforms. 

‘It’s a steep learning curve,’ John managed to get out, desperately dragging his thoughts into line. ‘I’m far less experienced than you may have realised. The Happy Chicken Shop doesn’t exactly do _haute cuisine._ ’

‘I was under no illusions. I just look for talent in unusual places,’ returned Sherlock with a mischievous grin. John had the horrible feeling that he knew exactly where his thoughts had been heading, but he tried to listen calmly, maintaining a professional air. ‘There’s nothing to it really,’ continued the Head Chef. ‘I’ve only been in the business a couple of years myself.’

‘Really? That’s a hell of a long way to come in two years,’ John gasped, forgetting himself.

‘I can’t take all the credit. My elder brother owns the business. He occupies a minor position in the British government, so he has some little influence. In fact here’s the man himself, if I'm not mistaken. We see him almost every night. Mycroft is the most unsociable man in London, so there’s very few places he can tolerate. Then he does _so_ enjoy his food that it’s lucky we’re here to feed him up!’ Sherlock casually picked up a stray parcel of filo pastry and pinched it effortlessly into shape with his long, elegant fingers. John had seen world famous surgeons who lacked his dexterity and grace. But Sherlock seemed to think nothing of it. He gave an indulgent laugh before sashaying off into the back office, leaving a hostess to greet his dignified sibling.

Things should have gone smoothly after that. There had been endless preparations executed by conscientious staff, and every eventuality had been catered for. But not fifteen minutes had passed before there was a panic-stricken cry from the back of the dining room. It seemed as though the room was running on a slow-motion reel as John looked up in astonishment. Mycroft Holmes lay sprawled across his table, surrounded by hysterical onlookers. His hand was clutched to his throat as he struggled desperately for breath.

***

It shouldn’t have been shocking to the former soldier. And yet it was. The paramedics. The stretcher. And most gut-wrenching of all, a pale, stricken Sherlock Holmes following sombrely in his big brother’s wake. The diners too were making a hasty exit. Paper Lobster might be _the_ place to be on an ordinary Saturday night, but nobody wanted to be around when disaster struck.

The staff seemed at a loss for what to do. After half an hour of hand-wringing and general confusion, somebody suggested that they should begin to clear up the dining room. As a chef on trial it was hardly John’s place to say anything. But every bone in his body screamed that this was a bad idea. ‘Shouldn’t we wait?’ he asked, instinct trumping etiquette. ‘There might be an investigation.’ 

‘Good thinking,’ came that now familiar, bewitching voice. Sherlock looked roused and excited as he entered the dining room, and John couldn’t help but feel that his demeanour was inappropriate for a man whose brother had just been carted off to hospital in horrible and mysterious circumstances. Nevertheless, the sight was by no means unpleasant.

‘He’s going to be fine,’ announced Sherlock. ‘Poison. But not enough to kill him. Thank you for preserving the crime scene. We’ve got work to do.’

‘We?’

‘I always trust my instincts.’ He took John by the shoulders and locked eyes with him. ‘Now tell me everything you can remember about tonight’s service. The human memory is capable of extraordinary retention, far more than most people realise. Was there anything at all unusual?’

‘It’s all unusual to me. I’ve never been in a place like this before.’ John furrowed his brow in frustration.

‘Even by our standards. Anything odd or out of place?’

John milled around the room, trying desperately to recollect how things had stood in the minutes before Mycroft’s collapse. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, coming to a table that was nestled in the bay window. ‘The couple sitting here.’

Sherlock rounded on the table and began to examine the places with alarming intensity. ‘Describe them to me,’ he barked without looking up. 

‘Um, okay. Well dressed. Very well dressed. Even by the Lobster’s standards. She was coiffured to within an inch of her life, and her jewellery was so heavy it seemed to weigh down her head. His watch was so large it's a wonder he could lift his hand.’

Sherlock made a noise that was either an exclamation of surprise, or a snigger. 

‘Is it important?’ asked John. 

‘ _Everything_ is important,’ declared Sherlock portentously. ‘But in this instance, not so much,’ he added with a playful smile. The taller man turned to sniffing the air, like a bloodhound hot on some trail. ‘Lottery winners,’ he pronounced at last. ‘Either that or a large, unexpected inheritance.’

‘How on earth could you possibly know that?,’ spluttered John, looking at Sherlock askance.

‘The perfume. It’s the most expensive brand on the market, but by no means the most fashionable – or appealing. Likewise the jewellery from what you describe. These are people who are keen to show that they have money, but they don’t know what to do with it yet. Hence it’s new money. You can see that the woman was particularly on edge tonight. Still adjusting to her new place in society. She’s bitten off half her acrylic nail, and her stiletto heels have practically dug a hole in the carpet from rubbing her feet backwards and forwards underneath the table. Classic anxiety gesture.’

John was still staring at the debris of the meal, mystified. ‘How do you know that they’re not aristocracy, with very poor taste? And high stress levels?’ he asked, secretly overwhelmed by the brilliance of the deduction.

‘Everyone’s a critic,’ muttered Sherlock. ‘In any case, I don’t think this pair are any threat to dear old Myc. Anything else?’

‘There was one other strange character, come to think of it.’ This time John headed to a table diagonally opposite the one at which Mycroft had been seated. He tried his hand at imitating his new acquaintance’s deductive technique, sizing up every inch of the abandoned table. ‘The leftover meat is strange,’ John ventured at last. ‘This fella had his food for at least twenty minutes, but he hasn’t taken a single bite out of an eighty quid steak.’ Sherlock gestured with his eyes that he should continue. ‘His whole look was just, y’know, a bit wrong for this place. Short dreads, stubble, a leather jacket.’

‘So what do you think's going on?’ asked Sherlock, looking genuinely intrigued.

‘Some sort of anarchist or protester? Animal rights, maybe? Somebody targeting your brother in order to get at the government?’

Before John could finish his sentence, Sherlock collapsed into helpless laughter. ‘I’m so sorry. That’s Cal, Mycroft’s undercover bodyguard. But apart from that it was a brilliant deduction.’ 

John should have been pissed off, but his face creased with mirth against his volition. Soon the pair were giggling like schoolboys. For John it felt as if a whole year’s worth of sadness was sliding off his shoulders. Perversely, the occasion of a man’s poisoning had brought him back to life again. And it didn’t seem to matter that the person sharing in the inappropriate humour was his potential boss. In fact, John was having trouble picturing Sherlock as a “boss” at all. After catching sight of his tight buttocks, cupped firmly by the pure white linen trousers, he had lost all interest in professional concerns.

‘Of course none of this takes us any closer to finding out what actually happened,’ said Sherlock, regaining his composure first. ‘Then I have made a fatal error. One should never theorise without first gathering _all_ of the data.’ He turned to the table where Mycroft had been seated. As before, he scanned every remaining item with a keen eye. Then, to John’s horror, he dabbed his finger into a small pool of spilt sauce, and tasted the remnants. ‘Oyster sauce!’ he cried smacking his lips theatrically. ‘Of course it’s the oyster sauce!’

‘Nothing suspicious there. It went out with all the duck we served. I swapped places with Angelo for a few minutes, and I dressed your brother’s plate myself.’

Sherlock grinned happily and clapped John on the back. ‘Congratulations. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who managed to poison the owner of a business during a trial shift. Of course you should have been told that Mycroft has a severe shellfish allergy,' he added, seeing John's alarmed expression. 'But not to worry. It’s nothing that a few hours of vomiting won’t fix. And it’ll do his never-ending diet some good.’ 

John’s jaw dropped to the floor, the mortification seeping to his very bones. But Sherlock’s high spirits now soared. ‘Come on,’ he declared indulgently, grinning like a Chesire cat. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’

***

Angelo emerged from the kitchen with two plates piled high. After unloading the food, he made to light the centre-piece. John was about to wave him away, but something in Sherlock’s manner told him he didn’t mind the candle. John didn’t mind so much either.

‘You mustn’t feel guilty about leaving Darl, you know.’

John raised his eyebrows quizzically. He was getting used to Sherlock being a hundred steps ahead of him in any given conversation, but it was no less confusing. 

‘Turns out his older brothers have been robbing him blind. That’s why the youngest Johnson left. A few words in the right ear and the fraudsters will get an unwelcome visit from the Met. Darl isn’t the only one they’ve conned by any means. And he should get enough in criminal compensation to turn the business around.’ 

‘So you’re offering me a job here, then?’ asked John, paddling furiously in order to keep up with the flow of the conversation.

‘Why does a doctor need a job here? A doctor and a war veteran no less,’ asked Sherlock, steepling his fingers beneath his chin in a provocative pose.

‘How on earth do you know that?’

‘You’ve seen my methods in action, and you’ve probably guessed that cooking isn’t my main interest either. I practice as a Consulting Detective; the only one in the world. Short version: I deduce a lot. Mycroft got me into the cooking game when he decided that my, er, recreational habits were getting out of control. I don’t imagine I’ll stick it out much longer.’ 

John stared agog. He hadn’t thought it possible for one man to be quite so fascinating. Sherlock continued his speech undeterred.

‘You make the most intriguing study. Your medical training is written all over your hands. And the psychosomatic limp is the biggest give-away when it comes to your military background. Then I’m pleased to see that you haven’t needed your cane tonight.’

That flummoxed John. It was true. His crutch remained propped against the kitchen counter, and he hadn’t felt a twinge of pain in his leg since Mycroft had collapsed.

‘Have I upset you? I tend to do that,’ Sherlock asked, misreading John’s expression. For the first time that evening he looked as confused as his companion. ‘Making deeply personal deductions and then announcing them in public is a nasty habit of mine, I’m told. Then if we’re going to live together it’s probably best that we know each other’s worst habits from the off.’

‘Live together?’ said John incredulously.

‘I’ve got a very nice place lined up on Baker Street, and I need somebody to share the rent. But perhaps I’ve done it again. Ignoring social cues is another of my bad habits. I’m sorry.’

John knew that he was not sorry at all. As he spoke, Sherlock had removed his foot from his elegantly tapered Italian leather shoes. In the privacy provided by the low-hanging tablecloth, his toes delicately kneaded the former soldier’s groin, extracting an agonising erection.

'To Baker Street?' asked Sherlock. His voice was thinner and more strained than John had ever heard it. 

‘To Baker Street,’ he agreed with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WhatsonHolmes) and [Tumblr](http://rrduscan.tumblr.com/).


End file.
